Friday Night
by TheNewHope
Summary: BtVS crossover. [DinahFaith] You can look but you can't touch.


title: Friday Night (or I'm crap at titles)  
fandoms: Birds of Prey, BtVS  
pairing: Dinah/Faith  
codes: PG-13ish girlslash. dancing. 803 words.  
summary: You can look but don't touch.  
notes: don't ask me how Faith got to New Gotham. or what season of BtVS this is set in. no beta, as usual (no cookie for me).

It's Friday night and you're shadowing Helena through a few of New Gotham's seedier clubs as she runs down dead-end leads in your latest case. You don't mind though, cause you've got yourself a fake I.D. courtesy of Barbara and Helena only smirked when she caught you throwing back a shot. In fact, it's a pretty good way to spend a Friday night, all things considered. You only wish Gabby were here to share in your fun.

Helena sure seems to being having fun. You smile and grab another drink from a passing waiter as you lean against the second floor railing and watch her move with the music and the guy in front of her. Moving your head to the beat in a way you hope doesn't sell you out as the spaz you are, you let your eyes sweep across the crowd below. The dance floor is full of people, all enjoying a night out on the town and you let your gaze wander aimlessly over their faces, looking for nothing in particular but sure you'll recognize it when you see it.

A flash of black catches your eye and you turn your body against the rail to get a better look. You follow the fall of black hair onto strong, bare shoulders and down a lithe body that's moving with a hypnotic fierceness. There's a group of people milling around her, guys and girls alike, all waiting to get a chance to dance with her. You can't help but laugh a little when one bold guy tries to push up against her only to be faced with her back as she continues to dance by herself.

You let your gaze trace her movements. There's a rolling energy just under her skin that reminds you of Helena, of the way she stole your breath the first time you saw her fight, all flashing speed and punishing grace.

You can tell just by looking at her that it wouldn't take much, just the slight brush of skin against skin and you'd know what has her so focused. It's an intoxicating thought and you wrap yourself in the temptation, in the surge of energy that pulses through you as you watch her. And before you know it you're down the stairs and pushing your way through the mix of bodies and sound, headed her way.

You know you should turn back, get back to the balcony and continue your sweep of the club. And you mean to, except you're already there, standing right in front of her and you can't quite remember how this could be a bad thing.

She's got her head thrown back, eyes closed, and you're so close you can see the beads of sweat that've collected in the hollow of her throat. You're aware that you should be moving, at least attempting to dance, but you can't focus on anything but the sway of her hips and the movement of her hands. So you just stand there and watch.

Seconds and hours later the music shifts, moving into a slow, steady beat. Still moving with the rhythm, she opens her eyes and sweeps her gaze across the crowded dance floor. She catches your eye and you hold your breath, wait for the sting of rejection that's sure to come. You're amazed when a slow smile curves her lips. Your heart catches in your throat when she reaches out her hand, fingers bent in invitation.

"Hey Blondie." her voice is slippery smooth in the harsh air of the club. There's something in the way her mouth shapes the words, in the distance of her eyes, that makes you pause and wonder who she's really thinking of. But her hand's still stretched out, beckoning you, and you realize that you really don't care.

The song picks up, a counter beat joining the first, and you reach out to grasp her hand, stopping just short of touching her. On instinct you step forward and run your hand just above her arm, sliding through the heat of her.

You can look but don't touch.

She seems to catch on, her smile deepening as she raises her arms, wrapping them around you without contact. And that's okay, cause you can feel her. There's this heat, this energy that's coming off of her in waves and it's all you can do to hold on as you get caught up in it, moving with her.

Later, you'll think about her. Tucked safely in your bed at the clocktower, hair dripping from a cold shower, you'll trace your fingers over your own skin and imagine how she would've tasted. You'll wonder what her name is and who she's running from.

Right now though, you're dancing with her and she's smiling at you and that's all that matters.

fin


End file.
